


At Any Moment

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Character Death, Drinking to Cope, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hiding, Separations, Suicide Attempt, The Durins Get Saved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Visitations, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were only a few among the Company who could say that they knew him well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Any Moment

There were only a few among the Company who could say that they knew him well.

Óin, of course, had ties with everyone, having treated injuries all through their lives. He had known him particularly well, as he had suffered many ailments through the years. It was a vulnerable relationship, full of the truth of pain, the gratitude of relief, the truth of pain again. Still Óin could see his smile that was more like a wince as he obediently tipped back whatever brew might help him. No brew could’ve helped his patient, his _friend_ with the excruciating pain with which he had ended...

The Brothers Ri, specifically Dori, had known him for many years. Their families had been close friends ever since childhood. Dori remembered perfectly the day they had met, the words the stranger had spoken in the warm tone of close family. He had been just what Dori needed in a time of loneliness—they had spent endless hours playing chase with each other through the Halls of Erabor. Now they were back in Erabor, but all Dori could run from now was his grief—his friend had sacrificed himself for these very halls...

Dwalin hadn’t even heard of him before the Quest, but as soon as he’d laid eyes on the bald warrior’s axes, he broached the subject of weapons and Dwalin had fallen into his smooth conversation. He and Dwalin were fierce partners in battle, two of the fiercest of all the Dwarves. After battles they had a routine: while Dwalin rubbed down his friend’s tense muscles, he cleaned both Dwalin’s weapons and his own. This showed the complete trust between them. Now Dwalin was left to clean everything and all he wanted was his friend putting a hand on his shoulder and telling him all was well...

Thorin had thought of him as a shadow, a mysterious silence that readily followed wherever they went. Then, in the heat of the Great Battle, when his family lay helpless against what was surely a coming death, Thorin had come to know him far better. He had protected all three of them, his rage at their fall projected in battle cries that surely brought Mahal’s ear down to listen. Thorin had watched his back with tears gathering in his eyes. He tried to remember when he’d ever spoken to him, even a word. Nothing came to mind, so he let himself weep. His nephews were barely conscious and therefore didn’t hear him, but their protector did. He whirled, concern glowing on his face. In a lull he knelt down, pulling a handkerchief out of somewhere in his armor and wiping Thorin’s cheek with it. Thorin didn’t know how it happened, but the next moment he slumped forward, blood trailing down his face as he fell against Thorin’s shoulder. It was too late for Thorin’s savior to be saved...

Bofur and Bombur had known him. They had always joked around with him, giving him playful shoves and aggravating him. He wouldn’t get irritated, even if it was at a bad time; instead he’d grin broadly and wrap an arm around each of their shoulders, unashamedly professing his love for them. He had been their courage and strength, the reason why they fought with such a vengeance against their enemies. He had been their encourager and trainer, the one who always had a word of kindness for them. He had been a guardian to them—no, more than that. He was always hugging them close as soon as he saw the slightest sheen of moisture in their eyes.

Bofur and Bombur go through the motions of a funeral, not really believing that he’s gone. He’ll probably walk in the door at any moment, munching on some kind of flower he found outside. Then, when he sees them, his eyes will lighten and he’ll rush over and ask them to share his flower. He never could quite succeed at getting them to try it, so he’ll just sigh in exasperated affection, followed by a ruffle to Bombur’s hair and a tug on the ears of Bofur’s hat.

At any moment he’ll stomp up, his face bright with confusion and anger. Why are all these flowers being pulled from the ground and put into bouquets? He knows they will only be discarded afterward—what is that stone box and why is it making everyone cry? He’ll pop up at Thorin’s elbow, prodding him, hoping for an answer. Then he’ll go into protective mode when he sees his cousins and their grief. He will leap at them, hugging both at once and demanding what the matter was.

At any moment he’ll come back again and continue his life as their determined, wacky, mothering kin. Life as Bifur.

After the funeral the brothers stand in front of the coffin. They see the dates of his birth and death but refuse to believe them—to them, their cousin is forever. He has been with them for as long as they can remember and at any moment he’ll return again. They see the flowers and decide that they won’t be there for long—Bifur’s going to come along and probably eat them all. They see the name etched into the stone...and that’s when it finally hits them.

He’s gone.

Bombur gasps, stumbles backward with tears welling in his eyes. He runs and hides himself in his room, unable to face anyone who isn’t his wife. When she finally manages to get inside, she holds her husband and wishes she knew how to help him cope.

Bofur does cope. He copes in drink and in sitting unblinking before the coffin, staring at the name and knowing but not caring that if he keeps on this streak he’ll drink himself to death and his name will be on the stone instead.

He decides that would be better and draws a knife from his belt. He stares impassively at its blade, wondering what the others might think if they found him. He lifts it—

And suddenly it’s three yards away.

Bofur stares at it in perplexion and then thinks he sees a shadow walk in front of him toward the knife. The figure bends down and picks it up. He looks over his shoulder, right at the knife’s owner. Bofur’s jaw drops as his cousin frowns at him, his ghostly-pale face filled with stern disappointment and anger. Bifur’s mouth moves in what is surely Khuzdûl, but Bofur can understand him.

 _I won’t let you_.

Bofur leaps to his feet and runs just like Bombur did. When he reaches home he decides that, surely, he’s better than this. He must clean himself up and then go comfort his brother.

At any moment Bifur will be watching and making sure he does things right.


End file.
